


Ipswich Flipswitch=One Witch, Two Witch

by Amand_r



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, F/M, Genderbending, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-12
Updated: 2011-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-14 16:51:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amand_r/pseuds/Amand_r
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An accident in the lab at Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes takes the experiment out of the backroom and into the bedroom for Fred, George, Luna and Angelina.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ipswich Flipswitch=One Witch, Two Witch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ragdoll](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ragdoll/gifts).



> **Kinks/Themes Included:** genderbending, titfucking, pegging, threesome, (plus 2 not-kinks—tribbing and cunnilingus)
> 
>  **Author's Notes:** Written for ragdoll in the Kinky Kristmas fest over at Daily Deviant. Thanks to the mods for the extension, and thanks to my lovely beta, joanwilder.

"I don't wanna be anything other than what I been trying to be lately."  
\--Gavin DeGraw

 

 **I. The Accident**

"I think, and this is just a guess, that we might be in a spot of trouble," George says, watching Fred frantically search their notes, minimal scraps of papers and possibly a bunch of Droobles wrappers that they wrote on whilst riding the Muggle subway on the way back from the pub.

On reflection, they'd thought of this at the pub, and perhaps that hadn't been a good idea.

Also, they might have been skiving off when Professor Snape covered the section on identity potions. Angelina had probably taken notes for them.

If she hadn't, then it's her fault.

Fred blows his hair from his eyes and looks up, the exaggerated grimace on his face not nearly as intimidating when he has those pouty lips. His shirt, which had once been loose, is so tight across his chest that parts of him are rather squished. George watches Fred come close to hyperventilating, and he realises that this is the first time Fred has actually, well, freaked out. He'd freaked out several times before, and Fred had taken the piss about it, but that was generally because Fred mixes the potions and George usually has no clue as to what he's ingesting.

This time, though, he senses that Fred is going to need a moment.

"It's not permanent," he says slowly, and Fred's eyes blink in rapid succession. "Right?"

Fred's nostrils flare and then he resumes his search of the papers. A scribbled-on coaster rolls onto the floor and into the fire, but Fred makes a face at it and gives it two fingers before grabbing a handful of scraps and sitting on the stool. His feet dangle and he has to nock them on the rungs.

George can't help but notice that his new hands are rattling around in his dragon hide gloves a bit, and he wonders if they are painted. He pulls one glove off to examine his still-plain nails. Too bad. Guess nailpolish doesn't magically appear when you get a…whatever girl kit is.

Fred spends a few more minutes mumbling and searching his notes, glancing at their empty beakers, and then he lowers his head to the table, his generous red curls shrouding his face. Aww, he's so cute when he's desperate. George wonders if he hasn't managed to skip freaking out and move right to Zen. He thinks about giving Fred a dose of something, and settles for the bottle of grain alcohol they use to clean the widgets in the advanced chem kit. Fred drinks from the bottle and makes a face, the same face he made right before he lost his cock and--well.

George looks on with interest, but nothing happens, not even vomiting.

The panic leaves Fred's eyes when the liquor hits his bloodstream and he sets the bottle on the table.

"Bad news," he tells George, "I have no idea what's going to happen."

George thinks about that for a second. He isn't in pain, and they have _never_ done something that couldn't be reversed by time, St Mungo's, or, when desperate, Snape. Time is the best bet at this point.

In the back of his head he thinks, 'If this works out, you are going to make a _fortune_.'

 

When Angelina sees them, turning from stocking the front shelves with Twibbling Quibbles and Exploding Snap Paks, it takes her forever to stop laughing. She claps her hands and bends over, then clutches her stomach and has to grab the counter to keep from falling over.

"What?" Fred says, hands insolently on his hips. George has to admit they are shapely. And, well, Fred is…top-heavy. He's inherited Mum's endowments. A glance at George's own chest reveals that not all identical genetics are identical. Maybe it's the potion. Yeah.

"You uhm," Angelina gasps, straightening and trying a few breaths before biting her lips and blinking. "You need a bra."

Fred looks down, gets distracted for a second, then turns to George. He opens his mouth to say something when George reaches out and pokes one hard nipple through the cloth.

"Boop."

 

 **II. The Seduction**

"I read about this once," Luna says around her glass, eyes glued to Fred's décolletage.

"I bet you have," Angelina purrs. She's been giddy since her third glass of wine, or since Fred and George had emerged from the back room with girl parts. It's difficult to tell what amuses Angelina sometimes, and she's his girlfriend, Fred thinks.

Luna shakes her head after a shot of Drambuie and yawns. Fred doesn't know where she puts it. George once said that Luna could drink Aberforth under the table, and they have yet to find someone to prove them wrong about her prowess. Sometimes, Fred thinks she _Evanescos_ it wandlessly and pretends to drink, but for the fact that it would never occur to Luna to dissemble just to be impressive. She doesn't have to.

"How long is this going to last?" Luna murmurs around her glass, now staring at George's breasts. He hadn't had to wear a bra, but Fred had had to. George's breasts are all…pokey…in the top Angelina lent him.

"We don't know," George says, leaning a cheek on his hand. He's trying to match Luna drink for drink, and it's not working out. He's been hiding his face a great deal, what with the blokes at the next table over eyeing the four of them and nudging each other in the ribs. Angelina and Luna have a running tabulation of how many times the table has been approached. Fred had never realised just how much sex he could get if he'd just been born a girl.

It gives him a whole new perspective on Ginny, that's for damn sure.

He rouses himself from daydreaming about his mythical female sexcapades long enough to add, "This wasn't precisely the effect we were going for with the _Ipswich Flipswitch_."

Angelina rolls her eyes. "Were you really going to call it that?"

Fred hiccoughs. "Try to say it five times fast."

"Ipswich flipswitch, Ipswi—is this going to do something?" Angelina blinks at the bottom of her glass and then clinks George's with it as a signal.

"Just make you sound like a nutter." George tips the bottle and pours her a finger, and Fred takes a second to admire his tapered fingers. George is a graceful girl. Fred is like an elephant, no idea what to do with the breasts and the hips and maybe if he'd been born with them he would know what to do with them, but right now he finds that sitting still is the best way to handle his extra bits.

Luna sets her glass down and stands up. "I think we should stop drinking," she announces, but doesn't further elaborate. Fred and Angelina shrug at each other, and George just smiles up at Luna. Fred has long ago stopped trying to figure out Luna's moods, or the meaning behind her words, or even what it is that makes her and George work together. Angelina says that they are on the same wavelength, but Fred has been finishing his brother's thoughts and sentences since they both learned to communicate, so he's not sure what she means. If anything, George is on _his_ wavelength, or he is on George's, and therefore they should all be on the same wavelength.

Fred wonders if wavelengths are visible. And where they come from. Does it have something to do with the tide? The moon?

"Where are we going?" George mumbles.

Angelina hands him his coat and struggles to put her own on. "Home, before you get pulled by one of those Quidditch player wanna-bes over there."

George squints at the table. "I like the blond. If he bought me another round I might—"

"Don't embarrass my sex anymore," Angelina says, smacking George's head. Luna gathers one of George's hands in hers and pulls him out of the pub and into the chilly night.

Later on the walk home, Angelina and Luna break off and saunter in front of them, arm in arm, and Fred wonders if this is one of those things girls can get away with that blokes can't, so he slips his arm through the crook of George's elbow and after a bit of tugging, they realise that they're just tripping each other up and settle for shoving their hands in their pockets. Once again Fred is confused not to be able to grope his kit through his trousers.

"I don't know how you do it," he mumbles. "All that stuff on the inside."

Luna glances back over her shoulder. "I wouldn't say everything's on the inside," she observes. Fred looks down at his chest, swathed in Angelina's extra winter cloak, one unfortunately trimmed in pink fur. Oh. Yeah.

"You know," Angelina purrs, looking back over her shoulder at him. Her hand has left Luna's arm and is instead sliding down the other girl's arse to tuck into the back pocket of her denims. Woo. "I would have thought that you two would be all for experimentation." She tsks. "All those 'If I had tits I'd never leave the house' jokes were all just talk."

Luna shakes her head and stares through the foggy window of the Muggle Magic shop. "Do those rabbits _live_ in those hats?"

Fred ignores her. "We've had lady bits for five hours. Did you expect us to fall all over each other or—you did!" Angelina hides her smile inside the upper curve of her scarf. "You thought we'd go out and get laid as soon as we discovered how to work our—"

"We have more decency than that," George chimes in, running to catch up from where they'd left him at the magic shop window. "I don't think they're real rabbits. I think they're puppets or something."

Angelina laughs. "Well, that's a relief."

"Besides," George grumbles, hat pulled over his eyes and mouth hidden in his muffler, "you didn't let us stay at the pub long enough to snag a—"

"You know, Luna," Angelina cuts in, her hand sliding from Luna's back pocket to run up and down the crease of Luna's arse. "I think they actually believe that shagging a man would help them learn all about their girl bits."

Luna's eyes widen and she stares at George. Angelina helps to steer her away from the collision course with the street lamp, her hand still on Luna's--well, if he were George, Fred might wonder about the two of them. Wait, that doesn't sound right.

"That's so very sad," Luna replies, so soberly she sounds as if she's come from a funeral and not from a drinking binge at the Roaring Goat. And then she rubs her cheek against Angelina's and turns around, the two of them resuming their walk almost plastered to each other.

George slips his arm around Fred's back, and Fred thinks that he's getting fresh, until he realises that George hasn't any gloves, and his diminutive hands are probably cold. They pick up the pace a little, still leisurely. Fred feels warm with the liquor, but also with some sort of sensation in, well, in lower bits of him, like getting an erection, but _inside_ , and he thinks that girls have it made with hidden arousal. He could have used that ability in his fifth year Potions class instead of wearing his textbook on the front of his trousers all the time.

The girls are head-to-head in conversation, and every once in a while they glance back at the two of them. Fred is wondering what they might be up to, but his mind drifts back to their earlier conversation, and he realises that they might be in for a…a penny, pound, whatever the hell that saying is.

"George," Fred whispers as they watch Angelina's hand creep lower on Luna's arse, "I think this is how pron-os start."

George snaps the strap of Fred's brassiere. "Oooh, I do believe you are right."

 

 **III. The Throwdown**

Angelina has to admit that when the two of them had come out of the back room, busting out of their clothes (or in George's case, not so much with the busting out, but still), she'd had a moment of amusement. Oh hell, it wasn't just one moment, she thinks as she follows Fred back to the bedroom, still chuckling.

But see, Fred is wearing a pair of her trousers, and his arse is outlined _just so_ , and when he turns around at the waist to look over his shoulder at her, his ample bosom comes into view, and Angelina can feel one corner of her mouth quirk. It's a lovely bosom, and she'd like to see it up close. She's _going_ to see it up close.

She has long got used to the fact that Fred and George use themselves as test subjects. For three days last year, Fred was a parrot, and sat on a perch by the register and screamed about 'pieces of eight' the whole time (when he wasn't whistling at Angelina when the shop was empty and asking her about 'junk in the trunk', whatever that is). The fact is, the twins have never managed to do anything to themselves that couldn't be fixed by time, St. Mungo's, or, when desperate, Snape. But even on the few occasions in which they ended up at hospital (or, again, when desperate, Hogwarts' dungeons), they still spent the beginning of the experiment joyously exploring their new states of being. Angelina enjoys the fruits of their labours (the day they turned their noses into kazoos, not so much), and this promises to be her favorite, she thinks as she sits Fred on the bed and presses her lips to his for the first time since he's altered his state of being (his state of sexy, too).

"Light a fire," Fred says, and George complies with an _Incendio_. Luna lights the candles on the mantel, casting the room in a mellow buttery glow that makes Fred's slowly appearing skin seem tanned and desperately pale at the same time. His shoulders are still the same, Angelina notes. It's not as if the potion has slapped tits on his body, actually, but he's not unrecognisible, actually. It's still Fred. She pulls her jumper over her head and tosses it in the corner chair, and wiggles out of her trousers, straightening just in time to be hit in the face with the blouse she had leant Fred earlier that evening.

"We have a hamper," she says, not sounding remotely sharp. Fred is sprawled back on the bed, breasts still large despite gravity, his trousers digging into his crotch so that she can see everything. They are too small, and she can't regret it at all. She wants to press the seam into him and lick him through the cloth. She wants to smell him.

"I'm a bird. I can't throw for shite," Fred says, and Angelina kicks her trousers over into the corner (where the hamper lives) and dives on the bed pinning his arms to it on either side of his head. If they're in luck, the cuffs are still there from last night.

They are using her and Fred's room, which is the room the three of them used to share before George found Luna and then found a spare bed to tuck into the spare room for the two of them. Angelina hears George and Luna whisper to each other, and it occurs to her that this is the first time she'll have seen George without clothes on in quite a while, and part of her feels a stab of regret.

For quite a while it had just been the three of them. Angelina had never envisioned that kind of life, but lying between Fred and George as they drifted off to sleep every night had seemed so right, she'd never really thought much about it. But last year at the pub, when Luna had drifted into the main room, Angelina had watched George's face turn so that his eyes could follow her blonde head, and Angelina had known that it was time to let go.

Still, though, she thinks as she watches Luna pull down George's trousers and kiss the riot of red curls, bare of any cock, she can't regret it, not when George blinks at the top of Luna's head and a secret smile slides over his face, something that she has never seen before, some mystery for only Luna to divine.

Besides, she has her own Secret Keeper, under her thighs on the bed and wiggling out of his/her socks. Angelina presses one forefinger to the crossfront of his bra, preventing him from sliding the straps down. That's hers to unwrap. She tugs the top of one of the cups and yanks it down under the breast, pushing the whole thing up. Fred makes some sort of whine-grunt and frowns.

"Oi, these things are delica---oh Merlin's balls, G," he breathes when Angelina licks a circle around the nipple before taking as much of the breast into her mouth as possible. She eases it out and then clips the hard nipple with her teeth, pulling just a bit. It's been quite a while since she's had occasion to play with someone's breasts (not since Katie, oh Katie), and--

"Are we sure this is a good idea?" Fred asks, because he is always the responsible one. "I mean, we've all been drinking."

Luna presses George back onto the bed and one of her hands strays to Fred's breasts. "I never do anything drunk that I wouldn't do sober," Luna says, then rolls the nipple in her fingers. Fred arches up and Angelina uses the movement to peel off his trousers. He hadn't worn the knickers she'd set out for him. Lovely.

"No panties," Fred says, smiling down at her from the V of his legs, and George laughs. It's odd to look at him this way, completely different, but his face still almost himself, his hair tumbling into his eyes in little curls, his lips more bow-like. He makes a passable girl. And it's strange not to have anything in the way except his pubic hair. Angelina widens his legs so that she can look at what magic has done to her boyfriend.

Well, whatever they'd concocted had created girl parts all right, perfect girl parts. Out of the corner of her eye Angelina sees Luna stretch herself over George's frame next to them. She blocks out the flashes of skin next to her and concentrates on finding Fred's clit with her fingers and brushing it with the barest of touches.

"It's amazing," she says, "but you're a textbook picture."

Fred closes his eyes and rolls his hips. "Is everything a fucking surprise? I never know when you're going to—ohsonofabitch—"

Angelina smiles and lowers her head to his cunt, using both hands to part the labia and hold him open so that she can look at him expanded in front of her. The smell is familiar, like Fred, if Fred were a girl, which, hey. She slides one finger into him, wondering if there's equipment on the other end of this passage, the other tools of the female trade, really. She adds her middle finger to her index and pushes harder, turning her hand, searching for the—ah, hello Fred's cervix.

"I bet you could have my sprog like this," she says, and the idea is bright in her mind like a lone firework in the night sky and gone as quickly.

Fred snorts, but his hands knead the covers on either side of his hips. "I don't think you—"

She bites the inside of his thigh; she's too busy for his lip.

Luna peers over her shoulder and Angelina glances at her face for a second, and then to George, who seems to be having trouble figuring out whose breasts to touch—Luna's or his own. Figures.

"What part of Ipswich is this referring to?" Luna asks, and Angelina just snorts. Luna's not dense, but her sense of humour is an acquired taste.

"It's just supposed to rhyme," George says, hands finally settling on Luna's breasts before she bats them away and reaches down between George's legs roughly. "Hey, watch it."

Luna smiles. Angelina knows that smile, and it's never good. Or well, bad, or all right, _uninteresting_.

Fred bucks up his hips when she pulls her fingers from him, and Angelina uses the moment to jack him up. Her elbows stab the bed under him, her hands flat beneath him as if she's carrying a serving platter. Fred's knees bend and he braces himself with his feet. George's hand swipes at her, but it's more from distraction than from intent. His and Luna's legs or bellies slap together every once in a while, their breath raspy as Luna sets a monstrously erratic and quick pace, running and almost thrusting against George.

Angelina's actually never seen this particular act before, and it's distracting. George's face flushes, and Luna's cheeks are red. Her one thigh is swung over George's hip, the other in between his legs so that she can hold his hips wide and work herself against him.

Fred has to smack her back to attention, and Angelina decides to see how far she can get her tongue into Fred, partly out of curiosity, and partly to see how high she can get his voice to go. It's a lovely voice, a mellow alto that she'd like to take into higher ranges.

She delves two fingers into him again, tongue darting out to circle Fred's clit before taking it in her teeth a little bit. Fred pushes against her face, his hands reaching for her head, but trying not to grab her hair. Now it's simply a challenge to work him with her tongue until he's incapable of noise or speech, or his little tremulous thrusts become hard desperate strokes. She smiles into him, laves his labia in one big stroke and presses against his perineum with her thumb.

"Scientifically," she says, "tell me what this is like for you." Fred is about to reply when he sucks in his breath and arches his back, then pats her head lightly.

"No, no, please, no more, no—"

Next to her, Luna's hair falls over her shoulders and trails down her back, curls starting to stick to the sweat on her skin. George lies under her, grabbing at her waist and thrusting up with his hips. Every once in a while his hands flutter on her skin. Once or twice they flick up to her breasts. Luna bends forwards in an arch until her spine resembles a croquet hoop, and she takes one of George's breasts in her mouth and suckles, licks and pulls at it with fingers and teeth.

Angelina bites her way up Fred's belly and snuffles the underside of his breasts, the softness of the underexposed skin there, then kisses along the sides of his breasts to the soft tufts of underarm hair, hair that he's always had, in his original form and this one, and the consistency is comforting. By the time she reaches Fred's face, she has wiped most of him from the outside of her mouth, but she can still taste him on her tongue, and she covers his lips with hers, prises him open so that he can taste himself. He's eaten his come out of her mouth, eaten George's come out of her mouth, actually, so this shouldn't be different, but it is. She's licked herself from his face countless times, and so it's not lost on her when Fred turns her face to the side and licks her cheek and she lies in the V of his legs, her head dropping to his breast.

Luna lets out some sort of groan that signals something, Angelina can't say because she's never fucked her, but George lets out his little grunts that signal he's about to come, except that they're a little more squeaky than normal. Angelina wants to take one of his breasts in her mouth, but he's not hers anymore, so she settles for lazily tracing her tongue up Fred's clavicle to the arch of his neck and the hollow of his ear while they wait for George to come.

Luna grinds a few more times against George before kissing the calf she's been holding up next to her. His leg is so slippery that when Luna lets go of it, the ankle just slides off her shoulder, down her arm and to the bed, where it lies, ankle twitching minutely.

"Wizard," George says softly, closing his eyes.

Fred looks at Angelina. "Let's do that next."

Good lord. Next.

 

 **IV. The Showdown**

"The best thing about living where you work," George says when he and Luna stumble back into the room with the boxes, "is you have all the inventory you want, whenever you want."

"Excellent if you are a baker or a joke shop proprietor," Luna adds. "Less so if you sell manure."

Fred isn't sure that he wants to do this. For some reason it had been all right when it had been Angelina's hands, her tongue in there, but now she was going to, as she had said when he got up to use the loo, 'give it to him proper.'

Ominous, that.

George is most interested, and he, as the technical creator of the harnesses, assists Luna and Angelina in the many straps, lacking in buckles or fasteners, except that George runs his wand along the places where the leather straps overlap and they seal perfectly, until Fred realises that he would be hard-pressed to figure out how the things had got on in the first place.

Angelina turns her hips back and forth after everything is settled, and the large hard synthetic cock waggles in the harness. "How do you put this in your trousers?" she says, bending the cock up to press it against her belly, and then tries to flatten it down along her thigh. Fred winces in sympathy.

"Don't—"

Angelina wags the cock at the base, then thrusts her hips out to bat at the one now settled firmly against Luna's pubic bone. "En garde."

Fred resolves then and there to get her a harness for ever, but to never face her from the front. Luna's straps are fused and her fingers stroke the cock lightly, as if she isn't satisfied with its hardness and wants to get it even harder. Perhaps it's just the nervous gesturing of the first timer. Fred is doing enough nervous gesturing of his own, hands running over his crotch, tugging at the hair there, looking for his kit and not finding it.

Angelina's wearing it. Well, not _it_ -it; she's wearing one of the adult toys they've been trying to manufacture for grown-ups in the Wizarding world. It's hot pink, for Merlin's sake.

Luna's royal blue cock makes her eyes look bluer when she sprawls backwards on the bed, George attached to her mouth, tongues working independently of fingers and toes. Angelina sits on the bed and they watch Luna settle back and guide George with the same preternatural patience she uses when out in the field looking for Snorkacks. She props herself up on her elbows and lets George work himself over her, rising up off the cock and then sliding back down on it. Fred can see her reach one hand up to guide George's fingers down between his legs, and the shuddering breaths that come from George when he finds his clit, working it and the cock, Luna with her thighs pushing her up to meet him.

Angelina slaps Fred's arse. "Face the wall," she says, and when he blinks at her, she leans forward to bite at one of his shoulders before turning him. Fred trusts her enough to show her his back, and she rewards him with three fingers in his cunt from behind. He jolts, but her other hand is around his waist and pressing him back into her. She forces him to bend at the waist, and when he sets his hands flat on the wall, she laughs into his shoulder blades.

"This is where I make a joke about cavity searches," she murmurs.

He tries to toss his hair out of his face, but it just sticks to his forehead and he has to resort to rubbing it on his upper arm. "Well if you find anything up there, let me know," he says jovially, expecting a little more banter but instead starting when she removes her fingers and the warm cock presses up against the flesh between his legs. He rocks back into the touch and oops, it's in there.

He wants to ask George about the magical properties of these toys, but then Angelina starts to move, and he forgets about everything for a while.

He's been buggered by Angelina before. Fred considers himself a liberal-minded wizard, and there are tonnes of sensations in the world, many of them pleasurable, and he isn't one to say no to something because it seems improper. So when she and Luna had suggested they retrieve the harnesses from the shop, he'd shrugged and agreed.

But what if the potion wears off in the middle? What would happen then? What if it wears off and he remains like this permanently because he was fucking when it reverts? What if he—

Angelina lifts his hair from the back of his neck and licks along his spine. "Stop thinking." She pulls out and slides her hand lower in the front so that she can massage his clit when she rams in from behind. Fred has to admit that this isn't precisely what he had thought it would be. It's like buggering, but not. It feels different from the inside. He feels loose and tight at the same time. Every time Angelina's cock pulls out, the smoothness of it on the edges of his cunt makes his hips thrust without thinking about it. He feels stretched, bent at the waist, arms up and pressed flat to the wall, the coolness of the plaster close enough to his breasts that it seems as if they are already touching it instead of just ghosting the finish.

He doesn't know if he's waiting for something to build like when he fucks Angelina like this, but he tries to remember what she does, rolling her hips, pausing, pressing her head into the pillows if they are back far enough, and he wonders if there's something he should do for maximum experience.

Angelina circles his clit with her finger and he jerks again. "The best part is," she says in a low voice, "we can do this for _hours_."

"Being a girl full time would kill me," Fred says to the plaster in front of him right before Angelina pierces him with her cock and he makes a groan that's more like a breathless donkey than a human being.

"You have no idea," she says, then shows him the value of double-time.

 

 **V. Bonus round: Uh, Double-Up, Uh, Uh, Uh**

George hasn't the faintest clue what time it is, but the sun is still down when he rolls over onto his stomach and his arm encounters a pair of breasts. Usually that's a plus. Usually they're Luna's. This time they're Angelina's. Oh, well, that's okay, then.

No wait, they're Fred's.

"Sorry, mate," he says, pulling his hand from Fred's chest and biting his lip. It's easier sharing a bed with him when he hadn't had a gorgeous set of knockers. George isn't remotely interested in men's pecs or any of that. Breasts, however, will forever be his downfall.

Which is why he had suspected a bit of cosmic humour in the way this has all turned out, he realises, as he lets his hand fall onto his chest and encounters the small endowments the potion has given him. Not that they aren't enough, they're about the size of Luna's, and her breasts, well, her breasts are fucking fantastic.

"Where's Luna?" Angelina mumbles from the other side of his brother.

"Bres-fak," Fred says into the pillow, then tries to roll onto his stomach. "Oh, for heaven's sake I—hey."

George yawns. "What?"

"I still have tits," Fred says darkly, "but that’s not all."

Angelina lifts her head and stares at the tent Fred's erection is making of the sheets. Then she lifts the sheets and laughs. "You're a hybrid." She submerges into the covers and George watches the lump that is her body make its way down. "Are you still--?" and when Fred jerks and yelps. "Nope. Closed for business."

George risks a hand down the sheets to his own cock, and he does a silent, blind-eye inventory. He knows his cock better than the back of his hand. Any man who says they aren't intimately familiar with every curve of their own equipment has something to hide.

Nothing's amiss, right down to the slight curve to the left. And like Fred, his extra…parts are gone below, and isn't that interesting. Nothing left of the female persuasion, just the smooth skin between his balls and arse and oh, by the way, hello, boys.

"It's probably gradual," Fred says, reaching out to poke him in the chest. "Shame, that."

He's about to reply when a cold hand cups his dick and he yelps in a perfect imitation of Fred. Under the sheets, Angelina chuckles, and then her mouth slips over the head of his cock.

George's memory is perfect, and even if it wasn't, his cock's memory is perfect, and it remembers the feel of Angelina's tongue. In some way, George knows that he will always crave Angelina, just like he knows that he will always love Luna.

He might have something to say about fidelity and Luna's absence, if she hadn't expressly told him that the people in bed with him are and always will be his safe bodies. Then she had turned her Quibbler upside down and remarked offhandedly that if she ever caught him with anyone other than Fred and Angelina, not even nifflers specifically bred to track his scent would be able to locate his body. Luna is an avid hiker; George doesn't doubt.

"So I've got breasts and a cock," Fred says brightly. "If I were more flexible, this would be heaven."

George opens his mouth to reply when the sheets slide down, or Angelina slides up, her hair in that messy state of artful disarray that she always had after every Quidditch match, too. She squeezes his cock and mouths one of his breasts, her eyes rolled up to see his face.

"There has to be a drawback to all of this," he mumbles.

Fred flicks Angelina's ear and then rolls over to the edge of the bed. There is a clink and jangle of metal on metal and he drags something up with him when he turns back around. "Eh? One last time, hey?"

Angelina's shoulders shake with laughter and she presses her forehead to George's shoulder. George thinks about it, staring at Fred's gorgeous breasts, Angelina working his cock under the sheets, and the memory of Luna's shagging from the night before still thumping through him.

"Oh, sure," he finds himself saying. "In the name of thoroughness." But he's not sure how this will work with three cocks and not two, and Angelina obviously doesn't intend to take the middle position like she used to do.

Fred watches breathlessly while Angelina slips her legs through the harness and wiggles her hips to shimmy it up. Her pubic hair glistens around the base of the cock, and it would have been a little more breathtaking if the dildo hadn't been hot pink. George wants to say something, but Angelina runs her hand along the shaft and pumps her hips and he takes back everything he was going to say before he even spends it.

Fred whistles and Angelina tilts her head to the side, staring at them both. It is the same look she gets when she's trying to figure out how to rearrange the display cases so that everything fits. Then she lifts her hands and makes a box with her fingers and centers it on them, closing one eye like some sort of demented artist.

"Trust me."

Thirty seconds later, George sighs as she slides the dildo into him, then steers him backwards so that she can settle on Fred's cock under them. They are both straddling Fred, Angelina riding from behind, and Fred closes his eyes. "You have to not do that," he says to Angelina, slapping her thigh.

"Pompoir," she whispers, then bites George's earlobe. He can smell her hair when it brushes his cheek—something with strawberries. Or maybe that's the lotion she's rubbing onto his hands, and then onto his cock. She's buried in his arse but not moving yet. Like some sort of interlocking puzzle, they have to all be posed before the engine can start to move or the gears will fall in. Or something. George doesn't have much experience with mechanics.

"Do you make everything complicated on purpose?" he gasps when her hands guide his cock forward like a divining rod, and it slots into place right in between Fred's breasts. Fred pushes his breasts together, and the lotion warms in the press of them. George closes his own eyes because this is almost a step too far, fucking his twin's temporary boobs.

Well, when put that way…

Angelina rounds her hips in some sort of swaying movement, and the first hit of some sensation slices through George's arse, then travels the length of his cock when he's pressed into the wedge of Fred's compressed cleavage. He pulls back, and Angelina mirrors it with her cock, and buries Fred deep inside her in the same movement. Fred thrusts up and Angelina stabs forward, and then George slides his greased cock back into Fred again.

There's no description for the sensation. Someday he's going to write a book about all this, or create a trick potion in which the user can produce words that mean feelings. Onomatoporna. Right-o.

George's free hand reaches behind him for Angelina's hip, and the free one touches his on the other side. Her other hand is in between her legs, doing who knows what, though George can feel the brush of the back of her hand every now and then. He feels like the middle part of the piston, or that train part that gets slammed back and forth in the cylinders. The rocking is easier after a little while, and he wonders fleetingly where Luna is and what she's doing. Maybe she knows. Who is he kidding? Of course she knows. Luna knows everything.

Sweat slicks his inner thighs and Angelina slips a little when he pushes back against her. Fred, holding his breasts together, whines and thrusts up enough to jolt them both in his lap. Angelina holds George still for a few seconds while they both grind in little circles, all but fused together, until Fred screeches (okay, so not all things are back to normal) and George knows he's done. Angelina will continue to milk him while he's inside her, but she'll be too busy to sing her normal triumphant 'I know Pooooompoooooiiiiir' song.

Angelina slows a little now, and George can feel her in his arse, pushing slowly, very shallow strokes that barely move out of him, but he's on the cusp and he slides his cock in between Fred's breasts a few more times before he pulls back and comes, semen spilling in the valley of Fred's cleavage and the hollow of his throat. Behind him, Angelina's hands press against his chest, and while he watches, his breasts grow smaller until his chest is as flat as ever, and her hands are splayed over his skin. He thrusts a few more half-hearted times, watching Fred's breasts shrink much more slowly than his did. People could say what they wanted, but size does matter.

Extricating their tangle of limbs and cocks takes a careful few seconds, but when it's all over, the only tits in the bed are Angelina's, and there are two pricks, not three.

" _That_ ," Angelina says from between them, "was fantastic."

"Worth the work," Fred agreed. "Fifty days of brewing."

George lifts a foot and studies his toenails—if they ever do this again, he's painting them and going clubbing. Maybe Angelina would lend him a pair of her heels. "Yeah, but next time, can we do something about the proportions?" Angelina snorts when he adds, "You were a little top-heavy."

"Oh, I dunno," Fred says, stretching, "they were all right."

George props himself up on one elbow and reaches across Angelina to poke Fred in one hard (manly!) nipple. "Boop."

 

 **VI. Obligatory Afterglow**

Luna flips the Welshcake on the griddle and smiles at the sun peeking up from the horizon outside. Diagon Alley is a mass of shuttered windows and thatched roofs. Everyone is still asleep, inside, hidden, perhaps having breakfast, getting dressed, kissing, studying, reading the paper or making a grocery list. She's always treated the everyday activities of other wizards with the same perplexity that they themselves reserve for Muggles.

The kitchen is only down the hall from the rest of the flat, and she's had perfect hearing since she was born, and that mail order correspondence course she took with that vampire only made it better (and they said there was nothing good in the classified section). If those 'X-Ray Specs' George bought her from the back of a Muggle book actually worked, she could sit here in the kitchen and have a cuppa and watch the show that she was only hearing at this point.

The stack of Welshcakes is fairly high when she decides that's enough and slices them all through the middle for jam splits. The water is boiling, and she pours it into the teapot, sets the jug of milk on the tray, along with four glasses of juice. After this much exertion, fruit is important to keep the nargles away.

There's a loud groan and Luna rolls her eyes. George is loud. Actually, she has a theory that all Weasleys are loud. Something to do with the hair, she supposes.

She has almost assembled the whole tray when there's a scuffle and a thud, like a person being tackled off the bed and onto the floor. Loud. Weasleys. Loud. Nothing to do then, but feed everyone so that the day can start.

But first--

"Ipswich flipswitch," she murmurs, unstoppering the phial. Half goes into her glass, half into Angelina's. "Good witch, bad witch."

What?

END


End file.
